


Tracing Lines (And Stories)

by Lumelle



Series: Garden in the Mountain [7]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Bittersweet, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumelle/pseuds/Lumelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vuori, daughter of Veri was blood of kings and proud beyond her means, and if she never accomplished anything else in her life, she at least wanted to do well by her sons.</p>
<p>It wasn't until Mahal's halls that she found out whether she had succeeded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tracing Lines (And Stories)

**Author's Note:**

> With May being the time for mother-related celebrations in many places, I decided it was about time to write something about Mama 'Ri.
> 
> Of the names in this fic, "vuori" is Finnish for mountain, "veri" for blood, "loka" for sludge/mud, and Timpur is shortened from "timpuri", which means carpenter.
> 
> **Please note** that this contains some vague **spoilers** about the main story, particularly regarding the brothers 'Ri, their parentage and relationships. It also contains character deaths, death in childbirth, shaming of unmarried mothers, gender dysphoria, and loss of children. Please read accordingly.

Vuori, daughter of Veri was born screaming, blood of kings and daughter of paupers, in a small hovel in the depths of Erebor that barely deserved the name of a home, and was determined to do better than her beginnings would dictate.

It wasn't a bad line to have, that of the Ri, for all that some might have told her otherwise. There was honour in her blood that her mother made sure to tell her about, honour and history that kept her going even when people whispered about her. She was fatherless and nameless and quite probably a disgrace, her only virtue her beauty that was apparent even at a young age, and which would no doubt only get her into more trouble, as was the way of the Ri.

Perhaps she got into trouble, but it was trouble of her own choosing, and if all Mahal had given her was a pretty face and a clever tongue then by all the forges she would make the most of them.

Vuori grew up, as many others around her didn't, grew up to be a dwarf strong beyond her years and proud beyond her means, and even as her mother passed she kept all the stories she had heard, knowing she would one day pass them on to her own children. She learnt to sew and cut and make beautiful clothes, and she might have been born a pauper but she was determined not to die one. She plied her trade and carved out her place and never gave an inch, and somewhere in the middle of it all she became a mother herself.

Loka was not her first, nor would he be her last, but he was the first to gift her with a child, her precious little Dori, and therefore she forgave him for more than she should have. She sent him away when she realised he thought his seed in her womb was some mark of ownership, when she saw he would not be good for her precious little Dori, and perhaps her life was harder in some ways for it but she was still proud beyond her means and no plaything to anyone.

Dori sat in her lap and played with her beard, and she told him stories of old kings and bloodlines long lost and passed on the pride she had been given because she had precious little else to gift him with.

Dori grew up strong and sturdy, his fingers quick to learn as he aided her in his work, and he had not yet come forty when she gave him a sibling. She did not take lovers so often, now, was too busy caring for her son and herself, but the merchant from Iron Hills charmed her as many did not, with sparkling eyes and flaming hair and a tongue that called her a lady and meant the same. She never knew his name, not truly, though she would not discover this until later, when she grew heavy with a child in her belly and nothing but a bead to hold for it.

She was still young and strong and proud beyond her means, and if he would not even give her a name she would not feel any guilt about not giving him a daughter. A daughter, so she was told, except she soon came to learn she had another son instead, and she had heard enough stories of blood of kings and families lost to know that the work of Mahal was not always as he meant it to be. She called her child a son and loved him all the same, and if any ever doubted her word she was quick to set them straight.

Nori was a clever one, even when he was little, getting everywhere he shouldn't and seeing and hearing things he ought not to have. He got into trouble more often than was good, and there were times when Vuori found herself sighing over his antics, wondering if she had done well by her children at all or if she was ruining them, with Dori too fussy and pristine for the dark filthy world and Nori too fiery and brilliant not to be snuffed out by the shadows, when the madness of Thrór darkened Erebor until the day dragonflame set it all ablaze in a brilliant inferno.

She had built herself a life for all her years and lost it all in a moment, fleeing from the only place she had ever called home with nothing but her sons and what meagre belongings she managed to snatch. It was not much, not when she had no time, not when Dori was frightened and Nori swore to fight and she could not allow anything to happen to them, not her precious ones, and as their home burned she fled with them and told them stories in the night to shut out the growling of their bellies.

Vuori carried the bead of Nori's father but never sold it, not even when her stomach ached for the hunger and she had little to offer her sons either, because she was proud beyond her means and knew the line of Ri could give him nothing but stories and a pretty face. And if his father was nameless or long lost, well, then there was all the more reason for her to cling to it.

It had been a long way to Ered Luin, a long time of wandering and exile and yet longer still before the dusty old tunnels would be called Thorin's Halls. Their prince was not bad but he was young, young and tired and unused to the burdens of rule, but he seemed free from the madness that had plagued his grandfather, and when he marched back with what few had survived Azanulbizar Vuori was among those watching them return. She saw tired forms and ashen faces, saw far too many gaps in ranks that no one had the heart to close up, and that night she held her sons close and told them stories of the blood of kings and battles lost and wondered how many mothers had no one to tell their stories to.

That night, she wept, but neither Dori nor Nori said anything about it.

After all this she should have lost hope entirely, really, should have known how futile it was for her to dream of better, but when she met Timpur such hopes entered her heart anyway. They were both away from home, from any displeasure or disapproval, and he made her feel young in the way she had not felt in decades and called her a lady and meant the same. He carved her a bead for her marriage braids and a clasp for her hair, and would have had the second bead ready before they came back to their home if it hadn't been for the battle.

He died shielding her, bought her life with his, and Vuori had thought she had no heart left to break but the shards of it tore at her anyway.

She would have tried to forget him, and no doubt would have failed anyway, but someone as cheerful and full of life as he had been would not be forgotten either way. He was not her first but he had been her last, because she could not take another after knowing his love, and yet he had given her one last child to bring to this world to fight for his place in the blood of kings and kingdoms lost.

The Ri were good for the birthing, she had been told, were said to take to children easily and keep them keenly, but that had been in Erebor where even the paupers at least had something to eat. Here her life was harder and leaner, her hands aching from all the work yet her clients could bring her little coin in return when they had nothing for themselves either. Dori helped where he could, took up some of her work and kept telling her it would be fine, but as her belly grew and her strength waned she knew she would have to fail her last child.

She told Dori not to look for Timpur's family when she was gone, if only he could help it, because she was still proud beyond her means but she also knew her own waning strength, and as Dori told her to stop speaking of such things she smiled and made sure he knew where she kept her beads, the few that mattered at all.

Vuori never held her youngest, never knew if her little Ori would be called her son or daughter, didn't even know if her child would survive the harsh world she had brought them into. The last thing she heard was a cry, though, fearful and fierce and full of life even in its weakness, and as she slipped away into the darkness she found herself thinking a dragon would have done well to be afraid of such a cry.

When she woke up, Timpur was there, because sometimes the stories were true, and among all her stories of kings and loss she had also heard of lovers reunited and the long peace of Mahal's Halls.

"You did good, my love," he whispered, his hands warm in hers, "you did wonderful." He drew her into his arms, then, spoke of all the relatives and friends she should meet now that she was here, and as the weight of the mountain settled above her once more the pain in her chest eased a little.

It never went away, though, not even in the peace of Mahal's halls and the arms of her One, and for all that her worries had all been lifted the ache did not fade until her sons came back to her, one by one.

Dori was the first, surprisingly enough, arriving in the Halls decades later after what he assured her had been a peaceful passing. She might have thought Nori to come before him, finally falling prey to some trouble or another, no doubt of his own making. But it was Dori nevertheless, her fussy little Dori who had loved hugs and tea, who now wore pristine braids and a beautiful coronet and spoke quietly of children he would never meet again. She held him then as he wept, even though she did not understand the depths of his pain, and Timpur sat with them because all her children were his children as they would have been had their story been different.

Nori was the next, having finally met an enemy he could not fight with even his sharpest blades, and for all that it had been a withering illness and not a grand beast or cunning criminal she was still certain he had fought to the last, her lively little fox. His stories were less painful than those of Dori, he spoke of honour regained and little ones with clever fingers and a One who should know better than to join him any time soon, do you hear me Dwalin just because I'm dead doesn't mean you get to ignore me. He spoke of a father found, too, in one brief moment of shared silence, said he had a name and a title he did not find overly important, and if he had anything more to share she was sure he would tell her at some point in their endless years.

Nori only wept once that she saw, shortly after his arrival in the Halls, when he realised he finally had the form to match his heart, and it wasn't like Vuori had ever needed the proof that she had never birthed a daughter yet it seemed Nori was grateful for it all the same.

Ori was the last of them, her sweet little Ori, the one she had never had the time to hold and had feared she would not even recognise. It seemed the Valar had chosen to take some mercy on her poor old heart, though, because as soon as Ori saw her he breathed out, "Mother", and it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard in all her years, living or dead, sweeter even than the cry of a babe alive.

He was no babe now, not even in this form the Halls had given him that her sons all assured her was rather younger than how he had lived to the end. No, Ori was a grown dwarf with beads of gold and mithril in his braids and worn, home-knit mitts on the hands that fiddled with a delicate crown. He had more stories than she could have ever imagined, he spoke of dragons and orcs and foreign lands with green rolling hills, of the blood of kings and families found and she wept with joy all over again for all that she had known of this since the day many years ago that Timpur's brother had joined them in the Halls and embraced her as a sister. Ori told her of other things, too, all about twisted politics and glorious fights and the laughter of children he had been allowed to hold in his arms like she had never held him. He told her of a Vuori daughter of Fíli who had hair of gold and a heart of mithril, sister to many and beloved by all, and as he spoke her name this grand and powerful dwarf hesitated like the little child she had never seen, his eyes searching for her permission, her acceptance.

Vuori, daughter of Veri embraced her youngest, blood of kings and father of queens, in the Halls of Mahal that all dwarves called their home, and knew she had done well.


End file.
